TITLE: The Flame
PAIRING: Summer/Seth
RATING: PG-13
SUMMERY: Summer thinks about her love for fire, and her steady loss of
control.
Summer loves the smell of fire, the smoky scent that makes her throat itch and makes her shiver, imagining it wrapped around her like the best lover. She has candles on top of her dresser, as well as a thin packs of matches. She's not religious, but if she was she'd worship the flame.
She loves the candles. She loves to light them at night, when sleep is unattainable, and she can't imagine how long it will be until morning. She lights them, and runs her thin, long fingers quickly through the flame. Each time she sees the flame lick at her skin, each time she pulls away just in time to avoid a burn, and each time it's like a little victory. It's something uncontrollable, something feared, nature at her wildest, something that can completely annihilate, and Summer can overpower it.
Summer loves matchbooks, keeps all the empty ones in a drawer as memories. Matchbooks from restaurants and hotels from all over the world, little freebies her father would pick up when he was gone. He'd send them to her, tucked among expensive gifts and designer accessories. They were her favorite gift, and he knew. Even when she was little the flames fascinated her. He never sends them to her anymore, just hands her a credit card on his way out the door. Marissa bought her a lighter once, knowing how she loved to light her candles. Her best friend smiled at her and said that it was less dangerous than the matches, and would be cheaper anyway. Summer had smiled and thanked her, but knew that she wouldn't use it. It was too cold, too uncontrollable. She loves the physical reality of matches.
She loves the sound of matches drawn across the stripe, loves the scratch they make and the velvet hiss that follows as the fire bursts forth, quickly containing itself. It reminds her of her rage, her rage at everything. Quick to start, viciously bursting forth and dying down into a steady, destructive burn.
She loves to put the flame out as well, to smother it between two fingers and hear it hiss, delighting in the fact that some are to scared to try to control this. People who see her do this without second thought call her crazy, but she smiles because she knows that the flame is under her control in a way they'd never understand.
When she stares at Seth Cohen, angry and glaring at him, screaming words she isn't even hearing anymore, she finds herself picking up a glass and throws it against the wall. It shatters, destroyed utterly, and her anger is at the height of its power, can only increase in its path of obliteration. She hates that he has control over her, so she tries to tear him down, teach him not to play with things he can't control.
And when he turns to watch the glass fly, and her hand flies out to slap him for not listening to her, he catches it with reflexes she would never have believed. And he's calm, fucking calm, while she rages at him.
He smiles, slightly, like he knows her, knows how she works. Like he knows that beyond her rage, something else has been lit. A flame indistinguishable from the rest of the angry fire, overshadowed by the light of her fury. She hates him for it even more, and the other hand flies.
He catches that one too, walks her backward with confidence she's never seen. He pins her to the wall and kisses her, forcing her mouth open, lips and teeth, and, oh god, how can he do that, fucking amazing, and when did he let go of her hands to get them around her waist anyway?
And she doesn't know where the anger's gone, and she slides to the floor with a hiss as he lets her go. And the other flame is fanned forward, a different light but equally dangerous.
Summer loves the smell of fire, the smoky scent that makes her throat itch and makes her shiver, imagining it wrapped around her like the best lover. She has candles on top of her dresser, as well as a thin packs of matches. She's not religious, but if she was she'd worship the flame.
She loves the candles. She loves to light them at night, when sleep is unattainable, and she can't imagine how long it will be until morning. She lights them, and runs her thin, long fingers quickly through the flame. Each time she sees the flame lick at her skin, each time she pulls away just in time to avoid a burn, and each time it's like a little victory. It's something uncontrollable, something feared, nature at her wildest, something that can completely annihilate, and Summer can overpower it.
Summer loves matchbooks, keeps all the empty ones in a drawer as memories. Matchbooks from restaurants and hotels from all over the world, little freebies her father would pick up when he was gone. He'd send them to her, tucked among expensive gifts and designer accessories. They were her favorite gift, and he knew. Even when she was little the flames fascinated her. He never sends them to her anymore, just hands her a credit card on his way out the door. Marissa bought her a lighter once, knowing how she loved to light her candles. Her best friend smiled at her and said that it was less dangerous than the matches, and would be cheaper anyway. Summer had smiled and thanked her, but knew that she wouldn't use it. It was too cold, too uncontrollable. She loves the physical reality of matches.
She loves the sound of matches drawn across the stripe, loves the scratch they make and the velvet hiss that follows as the fire bursts forth, quickly containing itself. It reminds her of her rage, her rage at everything. Quick to start, viciously bursting forth and dying down into a steady, destructive burn.
She loves to put the flame out as well, to smother it between two fingers and hear it hiss, delighting in the fact that some are to scared to try to control this. People who see her do this without second thought call her crazy, but she smiles because she knows that the flame is under her control in a way they'd never understand.
When she stares at Seth Cohen, angry and glaring at him, screaming words she isn't even hearing anymore, she finds herself picking up a glass and throws it against the wall. It shatters, destroyed utterly, and her anger is at the height of its power, can only increase in its path of obliteration. She hates that he has control over her, so she tries to tear him down, teach him not to play with things he can't control.
And when he turns to watch the glass fly, and her hand flies out to slap him for not listening to her, he catches it with reflexes she would never have believed. And he's calm, fucking calm, while she rages at him.
He smiles, slightly, like he knows her, knows how she works. Like he knows that beyond her rage, something else has been lit. A flame indistinguishable from the rest of the angry fire, overshadowed by the light of her fury. She hates him for it even more, and the other hand flies.
He catches that one too, walks her backward with confidence she's never seen. He pins her to the wall and kisses her, forcing her mouth open, lips and teeth, and, oh god, how can he do that, fucking amazing, and when did he let go of her hands to get them around her waist anyway?
And she doesn't know where the anger's gone, and she slides to the floor with a hiss as he lets her go. And the other flame is fanned forward, a different light but equally dangerous.